


will i forget you, my love?

by donkatsu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alcoholic John Winchester, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, Lol enjoy, M/M, Memory Loss, Non-Linear Narrative, almost completely non-canon compliant, like season 9-ish?, the mark is mentioned lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donkatsu/pseuds/donkatsu
Summary: a story written from the perspective of castiel, if he loses his memory and grace.just a fun little gambit. please enjoy.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean - Relationship
Kudos: 19





	will i forget you, my love?

I.

Castiel blinks fog away from his eyes, a veil that lifts up from his consciousness. When he looks around, the play reveals itself. He is the main character, and there is a prince with a crown of blood that stands beside him on the darkened stage in a leather jacket, plaid, and jeans, who grips his hand tightly like a lifeline. 

There’s no telltale sign that the man really is a prince, but Castiel thinks that he holds himself with the pride of one.

The calloused fingers feel grounding, and his heart sings praises of joy and wonder when the prince doesn’t let go, though there is uncertainty _and_ certainty warring behind his eyes.

The scene is not yet set, the stage not ready- so the curtains on the ceiling of the dais are still sweeping over the wooden panels below it. 

The scenery behind him is still just an endless warping of grey and everything, indecisive about what to become. He’s not sure about whether he will like the outcome or not.

His mouth feels like there’s cotton inside, but the answer is just on the tip of his tongue, his mind just on the cusp of remembering. He wants a hint.

The fingers tighten their grasp, and Castiel can feel the muscles that shift in the odd clasp of their cold, intertwined hands.

 _Dean Winchester,_ his mind supplies helpfully. 

II.

The stage’s background shifts into a clearing, the stage’s curtains lifting. Castiel stands there on the stage for quite a while, until he realizes that Dean hasn’t answered any of his questions. 

(He hasn’t asked any out loud.)

III.

“Where are we?” This sentence makes it out of the prison that is the constraints of his throat.

The prince breaks his ceaseless eye contact to look around as if finally noticing the changes. “Dunno,” the prince remarks briskly, annoyed by sunshine that now beats down on their eyes. “Never been.” 

“Wrong,” Castiel says, unable to stop the words from escaping his lips. “We have been here before.”

“Nah, you’re wrong,” he replies, but Castiel misses the playful tone to his voice.

IV.

“He’s still not awake,” Dean states, not asks. He’s been coming back home to the bunker enough to know that there’s no point in even asking. It’s Dean’s room, but this was the only place he could think of when he needed to dump an injured angel on a comfortable surface as soon as possible, so now it’s Cas’, he guesses. 

He swings his jacket next to the hook where Castiel’s stupid trench coat hangs limply- a motion he’s done too many times for it not to be a habit- and dumps some of his gear at the foot of the coat rack.

Sammy nods quietly, still diligently poring over multiple books and web pages of endless information on the table near Cas’ bed. His hair touches the pages of the old, weathered books when he leans forward to try to read some of the smaller text. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I haven’t found anything out yet. I’ll-”

“- let me know when you figure something out.” He tosses his final duffle to the base of the coat rack, the bag making a dull _thump._

“Yeah.”

V.

He gives one last hopeful look at Cas’ sleeping, relaxed body (please, please just _wake up, Cas, goddamnit)_ and steps out of the room for a bit to take a shower (Castiel _doesn’t_ miraculously spring up from the bed and say his signature “Hello, Dean”). In the shower, his tired and adrenaline-less mind after hunting without Sammy gives a hum of appreciation for the strong pelt of scalding hot water that leaves trails of liquid fire down his back. 

It gives him a somewhat momentary distraction from the fact that Castiel, who always answers prayers and comes when called, has not come back to him for the first time in a while. Dean realizes just how much he has taken everything for granted.

Honestly, Dean’s tired, confused, and angry, and he can still feel it simmering right under the surface of his skin. 

(Remnants of the Mark ache under his skin, because even though it’s gone from his body physically, it will always haunt him in his mind. It will writhe and twist and scream with no mercy, but the memory of Cas looking at him with anger, frustration when he finally gives into the Mark and kills the Stynes- 

“Dean, _please-”_

The knife buries itself into the book next to his face. If he hadn’t pushed with all of his strength against the Mark, if that knife had carved its path into Cas’ face, would the burn of him being sent back to Heaven hurt?

“Cas, you stay the fuck away from me. Next time, I won’t fucking miss.”)

He wants to yell and to scream, probably break something, but he keeps his composure in the quiet shower. 

What else can a guy do when he’s saved the world twice over and has to do it another time, probably? This fucking angel got rid of the Mark for him, did everything for him, and now Dean can’t even do anything as he loses the thing that makes him an angel. What can he do when he can see how the small amount of Grace that’s slipping away from Cas kills him slowly? When he knows Cas is going to die?

Fuck all, that’s what.

VI.

He’s come to terms with himself over the past couple of weeks. The grief that comes with knowing that he had something to do with the angel’s death (he’s not dead, but he may as well be)- it’s not just from being his best friend, it’s more. 

He misses everything. He loves what he misses, and missing it hurts more. 

He feels like a fourteen-year-old girl, so he goes down to the shooting range and loads his gun. He doesn’t miss. 

_(bang, bang, bang, bang, bangbangbangbangbang)_

VII.

Dean sighs, but instead of annoyance, it is with the patience of a man who has been through this many times.

“Take your time, Cas.”

Castiel starts. “I don’t know what you mean-”

“Honey, we’ve talked about this on the ride here- our anniversary?”

The pet name is so fond and _sweet_ that it doesn’t seem right coming from a man dressed as a lumberjack biker. “What do you mean, anniversary?”

The prince’s eyes widen. An apology is already visible in those ungodly green eyes, deep and so _truly sorry_ that Castiel has to actually look away (he finds a bumblebee, floating lazily in the wind). “Oh crap, is it time-?” He curses. “I’m sorry, gimme a sec.”

He doesn’t explain any further but leans forward towards Castiel to shove his hands into Castiel’s coat pockets. He mutters something under his breath over and over, something Castiel can’t catch.

VIII.

 _Dean, you’re so fucking useless,_ John spits, wiping the leftover beer away from his lips. Half of the beer bottle is either on the floor or on John’s face while the other half is killing his liver, and Dean doesn’t know what to do.

Being caught with the captain of the football team making out behind the bleachers by one of the bitchiest teachers on the planet- not one of Dean’s finest moments. What was even worse was that his dad found out- thanks, _Ms. Bulmer, you absolute bitch-_ from a meeting with the principal, and now, Dean’s taking the full brunt of his father’s rage. 

_How can you be so- so_ cruel _? Why do you have to do_ that _with a- a man, a boy? What did I do to deserve this from you? Did I not_ raise you, care _for you? Why can’t you be- be not selfish for once- think about Sam, fuck- why can’t you be more like the older brother you_ should _be- fucking_ think _for once-_

The door slams on his way out. 

IX.

Dean climbs back into bed right on top of the sheets, curling up to his brother’s sleeping form (he wasn’t really sleeping, Dean can tell by the tell-tale shifting of the sheets that his flight-or-fight instinct is _on_ ) instead of on his own bed (Dad sleeps on the pull-out couch because he probably hates the sight of both of them). The new shiner on his eye would surely bring attention to him in class, but hey, as long as Sammy doesn’t get any of the _bad_ attention at the crappy new school, he’s fine with it. 

“Is he gone?” The small whisper is so small, so fragile that Dean swears he can hear his own heart shatter. _Fuck._ Sammy’s scared, fucking _scared_ by their own dad.

He sighs. “Yeah, Samantha, Dad’s gone.” 

He closes his eyes, just for a little bit, because his whole body hurts and he’s sure his ribs are bruised ( _you useless sack of absolute_ shit, _Dean)-_

Sammy turns under the covers, facing his older brother with a look of pity that Dean misses because he opens his eyes too late. His stupid little brother is trying to shuffle his way over, but he gets more and more wrapped up as he wriggles, and Dean snorts. “Com’ere, you,” he grunts, holding two arms out and rolls over. One of his arms is trapped uncomfortably under his own body weight, but god, the feeling of his brother finally relaxing in his totally _manly_ hug? Best feeling in the world. 

“What happened this time?” Sammy’s breath both cools and warms his chest and it’s a little annoying, but he puts up with it.

Dean makes a face. “Nothin’. Don’t worry about it.” _Don’t ask, please don’t push._

“Why was he so mad?” _No, I care about you. Tell me._

“I _said,_ don’t worry about it, Sammy.” _I’m begging you, please._

Silence.

_Fine._

X.

“Aha!” Dean’s expression is one of triumph, and in his hand is a battered notebook. “Notebook _,”_ he exclaims, as if saying what the object was would give any answers. Maybe it might.

Castiel holds a hand out for the notebook and Dean complies easily, smiling He flips it open to the first page and is greeted with the sight of a language he cannot name, but can read. 

_You are Castiel, an angel of the Lord._

Below, there is something scratched out in a series of lines. 

_XIX._ ← _garrison #_

Those numerals unlock something in his mind, like a reset code but reversed. He _remembers._ Anna, her Fall. Uriel, his betrayal. Inias, the turning of his back. Hester, her loyalty. Balthazar, his companionship. All of his other brothers and sisters. The raid on Hell for the man that stands before him with loving eyes. The Apocalypse. The Mark.

His own Fall.

There are so many words that want to aggressively break out of his throat, and he lets out two. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean, his Dean, the Righteous man he had claimed all those moons ago with his own mark, who he had protected, tried to keep safe so many times, tried to do good for so much, _his Dean_ , smiles. “Heya, Cas.” 

The blood crown disappears, and a halo of sunlight takes its place.

XI.

When Cas wakes up, it’s probably supposed to be one of the more exciting, magnificent moments in Dean’s life. But then again, when do things ever turn out that good in his life, at all? The angel (is he called an angel still, even with all of his Grace gone?) blinks silently, cloudy eyes refocusing and shifting slowly in odd patterns at the ceiling. Dean’s breath catches, and a million thoughts flood through his mind. Should he call for Sammy? Should he try to lean in and look into his eyes?

Fuck, he’s missed this guy so much and now he’s finally awake. Where’s the fireworks, all the stupid shit he’s been envisioning going off at this right moment? In a chick-flick movie, he’d get all sobby and shit, probably hug Cas into oblivion, rub his tears into his shoulders or whatever-the-fuck. In a perfect world, Cas would sit up from his post in bed- totally recovered, healthy, all that shebang- and pull Dean in from where he’s sittin’ on a chair by said bed and give him a big ol’ smoochin’. There’d be tongue, it’d be just right, and-

But life isn’t perfect.

Cas opens his mouth- that, or his mouth just fell open limply- and a strangled noise comes out from his throat. He begins to thrash with a lot more strength than a guy who’s been in a coma for three months (that’s right, three _fucking_ months) and Dean has to hold him down by the arms and yells for Sammy to get his ass over here because if he doesn’t, Cas is gonna fly right off the bed. 

“Cas! Cas, Cas, hey, buddy, I’m right here. I’m right here pal, I gotcha, let’s relax, ok,” he rambles, trying to go for soothing and missing by nine galaxies. “Cas, Cas, Jesus-”

XII.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets, his voice absolutely wrecked. Sam leaves the room with an odd look back at them, having already done his job of helping Dean make sure that the newly turned human didn’t choke on his own vomit. “I… what happened?”

Dean shifts uncomfortably on his feet. What can he say other than that he fell in love? That he almost lost Cas? That he was contemplating leaving Sammy with this shell of an angel if he never woke up? That when he left, he was planning on killing demons and monsters until one killed him? To kill until he knew nothing but rage and pain?

Castiel flexes his fingers, trembling. “My grace.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s…” He brings his hand up to his face, a movement so dastardly human that Dean wants to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. To prostrate, to cry for mercy and a pardon for his sins. 

“I can’t feel it anymore. Is it gone?”

The hunter feels a chill crawl up his spine, and the tension in his shoulders don’t leave. He doesn’t answer. 

“Is it gone, Dean?”

“... Yeah.”

Castiel exhales sharply, and his head thuds back against the pillow, defeatedly. “How- what-” He trails off. 

“It’s a long story.”

XIII. 

Another siren case, Dean realizes. He had guessed correctly. 

He’d teamed up with another hunter for this case, another nameless killing machine in the face of his rage-fueled slaying. He notices the hunter hesitating, and then there’s a barrel pressed onto the side of his head. Dean brings his gun down, mind racing and heart pounding. 

“Hey there, hunter,” comes a saccharine voice. Dean’s heart drops, and the only thing that goes on in his head is static. “Hello, Dean.”

Not-Cas urges the hunter to bring Dean to his knees, his gun still at his head, and he falls, not as graceful as he’d like. He could do nothing else but stare.

“Was that impression right? Did I get everything about him right?” The siren twists around in its pseudo-body, a sweet smile- that looks nothing like Cas’ smiles- on its face. “I think so. Look at your face, so starstruck.” 

In his mind, Dean chuckles. As if he’d fall for this fake imitation, this _thing_ that could never compare to the angel back home, waiting for him to come back and find another way to wake him up. He tests the newly placed restraints on his mind: barely there, now that Dean is absolutely sure that not-Cas is just mimicry. He prods as the siren talks. 

“Who am I to you?” A touch of slippery wetness slips down his temple, but he realizes that is the feeling of the siren trying to read his mind. “I’m an angel to you. How sweet.” The siren chuckles in Cas’ voice, and the gravelly tone scrapes against his ears as _wrong._ The wetness disappears, and he tries to remember how he killed that one siren with Sammy. 

Not-Cas doesn’t realize yet that he’s actually an angel, and Dean hopes that he doesn’t have the powers of an angel.

 _A bronze dagger dipped in the victim’s blood,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Cas filters in. Even when he’s trying his best not to think of him, he slips in anyways. 

Not-Cas gets in too close, attraction clear on its face. In another life, in another time, Dean would have been flattered. But now, there was only raging violence. He holds it in for a second longer, then a second too late. 

The siren comes in even closer and presses its lips against his, and Dean becomes absolutely _livid._ He loses all sense of civility, of humanity, and he grabs out a bronze dagger from his jacket pocket, stabs the other hunter, and plunges it deep into not-Cas’ side and-

Not-Cas chokes on blood that begins to bubble up in its throat. 

For a second, Dean is brought back to that time in the bunker, knife in hand, bodies around him, Cas laying behind him. A gurgling sound snaps him out of his thoughts. He looks down at the collapsed siren, not-Cas staring up at him with rage in his eyes. Is that what Cas will look at him like, when he finds out what Dean’s been doing so far? Wasting time, hunting down low-level monsters? Not helping Sammy find a way to wake him up? Trying to ignore the fact that he’ll never have the guts to say the words, “I love you”? 

God. Chuck. Whoever. 

Just bring him back to me.

XIV.

Castiel hums placidly as Dean hands him a grilled-cheese sandwich. 

“Anymore catching up to do?” Dean asks, wiping his mouth with a hand. Castiel hands him a napkin that Sam must have packed. 

“No,” he replies. “The notebook refreshed everything.”

And it did.

It gave him back _all_ the memories he needed, a gift from his past-self to his current person. He felt… complete. Losing his memories to the corrosion of having a human body and no grace was an event well-documented in the black notebook, all the reset words written in with an explanation of what they were going to bring back into his mind like a new puzzle piece. 

“It’s getting better,” Dean says, taking another bite. “It’s been a while since your last reset.”

Castiel nods, turning his head to take a better look at the ex-hunter. His saviour, his love. The one that had given his grace back, the one that allowed him to grow whole again. Dean had given up hunting, after a few failed attempts. It only took two near-death experiences to realize that if he died, nobody would love Cas as much as he did. Nobody would care about _him_ as much as Cas did. 

Dean wouldn’t be able to wake up next to him, to hold him close, to breathe in his scent of clean sheets and cedar. He wouldn’t be able to have him scold him about leaving clothes lying around in his- their room. 

“Our anniversary-”

“- is today, yeah. That’s why I brought you here.” Dean gestures around them, the picnic set up in front of them, a beautiful open clearing. Overhead, two birds fly beside each other, chirping. They perch on a tree, blissfully covered in shade. 

“I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Dean smiles, so completely elated, crows’ feet by the corner of his eyes. Were they there before? Castiel idly opens his notebook again, flipping through the pages. Dean leans over to read too when Castiel stops at a spot. Castiel knows he can’t read it anyway, but he beams.

A star in the corner of the second last page that was written in says, ‘Dean’s ageing. I find him more handsome, but he seems to be self-conscious about it. Compliment him. Tell him how much more beautiful he grows with each day. With every strand that grows silver, tell him. 

‘Tell him, tell him, tell him. Tell him about how my grace is slowly dwindling, and I am ageing like he is. I don’t know when I will ever say it, and I don’t know if I ever will. Write it down, if you do. Write down your promise! You will tell Dean Winchester that you love him, and that when he passes, so will you! You will follow him anywhere. You both have fought for so long to have peace. You love him. You love him. You love him.’

A tear slips down from Castiel’s eyes, unprompted. He is surprised. Dean’s finger comes by his cheek to wipe it away, and then comes his whole hand, caressing his face. Castiel begins to sob. His hand moves from holding down the notebook pages to grabbing onto Dean’s hand like nothing else in the world matters. Nothing else matters.

“I love- I love you. Dean Winchester, I love you. Righteous man, Dean, Dean, Dean-” Castiel chants in his tongue.

Dean shushes him, bringing his face forwards to rest his forehead against Castiel’s. “I don’t know no Enochian, but I know the words Dean Winchester anywhere. I love you, Cas. Ain’t no memory wipe gonna take you away from me, you hear? I’m gonna get you back, every single time.”

“What if I won’t be able to remember anymore?” Castiel whispers against the edge of Dean’s lips. “What if I forget all of this?”

“I’ll love you even if you forget me, because I’ll never be able to forget you, Cas.”

**Author's Note:**

> IVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS SINCE FEB 2019 AND I FORGOT AB IT. MAN.
> 
> anyways. hope this gets some views and kudos bc i really am proud of this :) love you guys.


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